


Warmth

by collectiveobsession



Series: Falling Slowly [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 21:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16127231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collectiveobsession/pseuds/collectiveobsession
Summary: She stares at the drawings for an eternity, trying to eke out what exactly is wrong with them. These attempts are Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition, there was no mistaking that.But Evie doesn’t want to paint the Commander.She wants to paint Cullen.





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and review :)

“Inquisitor!”

Evelyn sighs, shoulders sagging as someone calls for her across the grounds of Skyhold. She has just returned from the Storm Coast, again, and wants nothing more than a hot bath and dry blankets to curl up in. Her clothing still feels soaked through and her bones brittle with the cold she has endured through the mountains. Whatever this courier wants can wait. What she needs, _right now_ , is a warm hearth.

She turns and sees that it is no messenger calling for her, but rather the Commander. He stands several paces away, amongst the chaos of the returning group. She can make out a faint flush on his face as he grips the back of his neck with one hand.

“I-” He hesitates, coming a few steps closer to her, “My apologies, Inquisitor. It is nothing of importance.” Evelyn cocks her head to the side, trying to understand his reticence. It dawns on her suddenly that her heavy sigh upon being called to has been misconstrued.

“No, no it’s quite all right!” She says quickly, louder than she intended. Several nearby scouts look over at the two and she feels her own face burning, “I mean, I wasn’t sighing at _you_. Just at the thought of being needed for something right now.”

“Looking forward to relaxing?” Cullen smiles at her, and his understanding warms her chest.

“ _Yes_ ,” She says emphatically, “I’ve been wet for _days_.”

Cullen’s eyes widen at her statement and it takes half a second for her to think about her words. Evie slaps a hand over her lips and looks skyward, wishing a rift would open right here and swallow her up.

“I – not like that! Just – the Storm Coast is wet. And I’ve been there for too long and – it’s wet there and – so my clothes are wet! Just my clothes!” Her quick explanation is stilted and the flush of her embarrassment makes her sweat, “ _Andraste’s ass, just shut up_.” She mutters to herself, pressing her hands over her eyes.

She half expected Cullen to walk away and leave her in her misery, but a deep belly laugh interrupts her silent contemplation on how she could open a rift herself. Evie has never heard that kind of laugh from the Commander; she is only familiar with his quiet chuckling or chuff of amusement. She did not think him capable of such a sound – such a warm, bone-melting sound – and she opens her eyes to take in the sight.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, mirth flashing in the bright golden irises. The scar on his lip pulls tight as his grin reveals a set of straight, white teeth. She almost thinks that he seems somehow brighter, younger in his laughter. She has never seen this side of him, but wants to bask in it for as long as he’ll allow.

“It is all right, Inquisitor.” He finally stops laughing, smiling so wide she cannot help but return it, and she convinces herself that his widens when he notices this, “I understand what you meant.”

“I will try not to incriminate myself or offend you any longer,” She gives a slight curtsey and makes to walk off, but Cullen halts her with a hand on her upper arm.

“My lady, please – I _did_ call you for a reason,” She stops in her tracks and sees that his smile has dimmed and he begins to fidget, “That is, if you have a moment.” He adds quickly.

“No, no, please!” Evelyn insists with a smile, trying to ease his sudden anxiety.

“I – well,” He starts and his eyes now refuse to meet hers, “I’ve just returned from Val Royeaux myself.” She nods, having forgotten that on her own expedition, but recalling the plan before she left. He had been very unhappy about venturing to Orlais with Josephine, but Evie would have traded the Storm Coast for that any day.

Cullen shifts uncomfortably again and Evie now realizes that he has been holding a small wooden box the entire time. He switches it between his hands several times before finally looking up at her again.

“I saw this in a shop and thought you’d like it,” With a free hand, he rubs the back of his neck again and she files away the sight of her shy commander. He extends the box to her and she takes it in her hands as though given a precious jewel.

The box itself is extraordinary. Crafted of a fine, dark mahogany, the lid displays delicate carvings of vines. Extending from the vines are little engraved flowers of crystal grace, inlaid with gold flakes. She is so taken aback from the beauty of the item that she stands in silence, mouth hanging slightly ajar as she studies this gift. She cannot remember the last time someone has given her such a gift.

“It’s beautiful, Cullen,” Evie breathes, finally looking up at him to see his rapt attention at her reaction.

“Open it,” He encourages, tentative smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh! Of course.”

The inside of the box is, somehow, more magnificent to her.

Nestled inside is the most gorgeous set of watercolors she has ever laid eyes on. There are two rows of six colors, chromatically arranged, all warm colors. Vibrant reds, shimmering golds, burnt oranges nearly glow in the bright white light of the surrounding mountains. Her brain goes over a hundred scenes she can make out of these hues: Varric pouring over a manuscript against the backdrop of the Great Hall’s hearth, the changing foliage of the Hinterlands as the seasons turn, the poisonous scarlet of red lyrium protruding from a Templar like a parasite…

Evie gives her head a little shake as she ghosts a hand over the twelve new colors she will use to tell her stories. People have given her gifts before, pretty little trinkets or books on studying magic, but no one has ever thought to get her something like _this_. So few know of her love of art and even fewer have had the time to procure her any supplies (she has taken to stealing from Solas’ stash). The idea that Cullen spent more time that necessary in _Orlais_ to _buy something for her_ causes both a pleasurable squirm in her stomach, as well as a knot in her chest.

“…do you like it?” It is Cullen’s tentative inquiry that wrenches her back to reality. She feels a slight burn at the corner of one eye and wills the sentiment away.

“I-” Her voice cracks the slightest at the emotion and she clears it as quietly as she can before proceeding, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m sorry if they’re the wrong um, _medium_? I confess I don’t have much of an artistic eye,” Cullen says quickly, another blush creeping up his cheeks, “But, the colors just reminded me of you. You know, with all the fire and warmth and…everything.”

She smiles at the reference to her affinity for fire magic and takes a step closer to him.

“Cullen, they’re _perfect_ ,” He huffs out a sigh of relief and she grins, “I love watercolors and this set – the box – it is all just _magnificent_.”

Evie puts a hand on his arm, a slow enough motion that he could see the movement and swiftly sidestep it if he wanted. He remains steadfast, eyes meeting hers as her hand grasps the soft leather at his elbow.

“No one has ever given me something like this,” She says quietly, “It really is perfect.”

Cullen smiles at her and gives a polite motion between a head nod and short bow.

“You are welcome, my lady.” He turns and walks back into the fray of Skyhold, leaving her with the most precious gift he might not understand.  

~*~*~*~

After a blisteringly hot bath, a delicious meal, and her fleece robe, Evelyn knows exactly what she is going to paint.

She stands in the middle of her chambers, charcoal pencil dangling from her fingertips as she sketches the outline of her painting, deep in thought. A small frown tugs at her mouth as she glances over at the pile of discarded canvases on the floor beside her easel. Her subject has proven unreasonably difficult, though she can hardly be surprised by that. She has, time and again, attempted this same portrait and been woefully disappointed in her work.

A half-outlined face stares back at her, unshaded eyes scrutinizing her the way he would a troop of recruits. A least two dozen similar drawings litter her floor, wrenched from her easel in frustration because they just weren’t _right_. Evie feels a similar sentiment as she tilts her head, critically examining this version of the Commander and trying to figure out where she went astray with it. This one, like its other fallen comrades at her feet, just wasn’t right.

_Maker’s breath_ , why couldn’t she get this right? She’d only been watching the man for the better part of a year, it’s not as though she didn’t study him enough.

Evie looks over at the rest of her discarded works. Half of the pile depicts deep-set scowling eyes while the other half show a clenched jaw with a tightly pursed pair of scarred lips. A true-to-form commander, presiding over his troops.

She stares at the drawings for an eternity, trying to eke out what exactly is wrong with them. These attempts are Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition, there was no mistaking that.

But Evie doesn’t want to paint the Commander.

She wants to paint _Cullen_.

The realization hits her like a lightning strike. Cullen wears the title like armor, but beneath that is a different man. She saw it today in the way he laughed at her, bright and burning. She’s seen it when they’ve shared dinner together, swapping stories from home. Cullen is honest, witty, and _good_ – including his broken pieces.

Evie smiles to herself and puts the scene together in her head, fingers gripping charcoal, waiting to be unleashed on the canvas. Cullen smirking as he leans back in his chair, a smug _checkmate_ on his lips. Cullen meeting her at the stables after a quest to let her know he’s glad she’s returned safely. Cullen’s self-conscious stance at her chamber door when he meets her for dinner. There are so many scenes she can pick from, Evie finds it overwhelming.

And so, with a deep breath, she sets to work.

It takes her more than one night to complete this masterwork. One night turns to two and two to three. After one week, Evie stares at the finished portrait, scrutinizing every last brushstroke.

Even she has to admit, the painting is practically perfect.

It is a moment that Evie has often taken for granted, considering it now. Cullen, lounging in one of her armchairs after a quiet dinner with her, nursing a steaming mug of tea. The roaring fireplace behind him halos his curls (rebelling from their carefully constructed style at the end of the day), surrounding him in a soft golden light. His face is tilted to the side and downwards, amber eyes glowing, crinkling at the sides as he laughs at something she’s said. He is out of his armor and fur pauldrons, opting for a loose, soft tunic and breeches.

This is not the Commander, this is _her_ Cullen.

It is a simple, stolen moment, but a scene that Evelyn has replayed in her mind time and time again. She savors these dinners they share together, these few hours where she can be Evie and he can be Cullen. Even gazing at it now, she feels the heat of the hearth and the mug in her hands. She hears the soft, low tones of Cullen’s voice as he tells a tale from his childhood. She can see the light and laughter glimmering in his eyes. She even feels the nervous squirm of her stomach when he takes his leave, pausing at the top of the stairs to kiss her hand. Followed by the short chill of disappointment when he doesn’t sweep her off her feet and _kiss her already_.

A small, contrite smile tugs at her lips, and she suddenly wishes she could keep this painting for herself. Evie has used every single color from the Orlesian palette Cullen gifted her – she swears the painting wouldn’t be half as good without it.

This is a work that she is truly proud of, yet somehow terrified of what Cullen might think. She hopes he understands how important the time they spend together is, how he makes her feel safe and warm and human. He is a beacon of light in the storm that her life has become since the Conclave.

Steeling herself, Evie squints at the thin line of the rising sun on the Frostbacks and wonders how quickly she can sneak in this delivery.

After carefully wrapping the gift and penning a short note and signature, she is off with the cloak of ebbing nighttime protecting her and a whispered prayer to Andraste…

_Please let him understand_.


End file.
